


Drive me crazy

by LizzyGal



Series: Toxic [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Asshole steve rogers, Blood, Captain Hydra, Captain!Hydra, Car Sex, Choking, Dark!Steve, Death, F/M, Gags, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Steve Rogers, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, NSFW, Nipple Piercings, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Revenge, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzyGal/pseuds/LizzyGal
Summary: After Project Insight succeeded and Hydra took over, Steve Rogers is Captain Hydra and not taking it too well.Steve Rogers is out for revenge and on a discreet killing spree, however, the young wife Hydra gave him is proving to be a bit of a handful.You're just trying to get by in this new world and deal with Captain Hydra, who may be, a bit of a handful too.::Trigger Warnings for murder, blood, death and Dark!Steve. This is a alternate universe story where Hydra is in charge. Steve is a delicious anti-hero and out for vengeance. There is also some slightly mild dub con, choking and restraints with the love making::
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Series: Toxic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1857811
Comments: 39
Kudos: 193





	Drive me crazy

To be quite honest, Captain Rogers had not been himself for a while now.

How it happened was still fuzzy.

When it happened, well, that was more clear.

It was after Hydra had taken over everything, when Project Insight had succeeded in it’s mission and he’d been captured. Nat, Nick, Sam, everyone. It had not been good and it was all his fault. It’d been six years. Six long years and after much interrogation, much isolation and what they’d called enhanced means of interview, something broke in Steve.

Steve didn’t break in the sense that he gave up information, or became a member of Hydra to save his own life. Oh no. Something else happened, something else inside of him broke. Something that kept the darkness at bay splintered, a soul if one believed in that sort of thing. Without it, Steve was not the same. Without it, something grew inside of him that festered and tainted him.

He would pay Hydra back. That was now his mission.

It would not be all at once. It would be gradual. It would be slow. It would take time.

Not that Steven Grant Rogers ever let on.

No.

Never.

That would have ruined perfectly good plans for revenge.

After Hydra became the definite world power, he’d been turned into something of a propaganda figure. Captain Hydra. Once the world saw Captain America was onboard with Hydra, everyone would follow in step. Eventually, when his reeducation was complete, he been given awards and commendations, along with a spiffy new uniform and a pretty stellar defense security job. Agent Rogers was the perfect Hydra Soldier.

Agent Rogers now lived in a nice little house on a well-maintained street.

Agent Rogers was polite and helpful.

Agent Rogers had married the daughter of a local official that Hydra had suggested, as per the Arrangement, to help integrate possible dissidents into the new world order. To the outside, it appeared to be a happy union that Director Pierce enjoyed flouting around the office, at events and to visiting dignitaries.

See how his Captain had adapted to all these changes? See how well his Captain worked alongside Agent Rumlow and the late Senator Stern and himself? Last week’s unfortunate car bombing, that had taken the life of Colonel Karpov was such a tragedy. Pierce had no doubt that his Captain would soon find those responsible. He was positive actually. His Captain Hydra was invaluable. 

If only Alexander Pierce knew the thoughts that Steve contemplated, the truth about Agent Rogers. If Pierce knew, if he ever found out, Captain Hydra would be frozen in a heartbeat. Which was why, that very night, when Agent Brock Rumlow dropped by his little house on a quaint street in suburbia, unannounced, he was let in. Little did Agent Rumlow know, there would be no leaving.

Agent Rogers suspected that his fellow Hydra Agent would come by, based on the conversation he’d overheard outside his office.

Yet, he still managed to pull off a well-practiced look of mild surprise, upon opening his front door and seeing Agent Rumow there. 

Not Brock, never Brock, not even Rumlow.

Agent Rumlow.

Agent Rogers would have only ever called him by his title.

Rumlow could never be allowed to know the truth. Not with what Steve had in mind for the man.

“Hey,” Brock greeted, his throaty voice setting Steve on edge as it always did, but especially now, on the threshold of his fake life. This had been given to him and while it was never home, it did belong to him. Fighting down his initial revulsion, he maintained his mild surprise. “I was in the neighborhood and was wondering if I could come in? To chat about that car bombing. I don’t know if Pierce filled you in about the new security measures the team proposed, but since you were gone, I figured I’d swing by.”

Not fooled for a second, Steve stepped back into the entranceway of his little slice of domesticity.

Pierce had sent him off on a little side project and Brock had fumed.

With the Asset still missing, Captain Hydra had filled that void as Pierce’s personal assassin and was used as such, in addition to his new tasks. Not that Brock was jealous. Oh no, he was just as important as Rogers. He could be just as useful to Pierce and one day, he’d show how. It may have been, perhaps, an additional reason why he came by, to take a peek around, see how Captain Hydra himself lived.

Brock noticed the shoes all lined up neatly by the front door, so he kept his on.

He looked around as Pierce’s Captain shut and locked the front door, stepping into the small but cozy living room. All decorated in soft beiges, light blues and teak wood. It was comforting and soothing and made him want to plop down on that cushy looking sofa. Little knickknacks caught his eyes, fresh cut flowers made him reach out, he even found himself checking out books on a bookcase.

Brock clenched his teeth.

One more thing Pierce had given the golden haired wonder over him.

You.

The arrangement had been made. You would have been Brock’s wife. You were supposed to marry Brock to get your family under Hydra’s thumb, control them through you. 

Then, one day, Alexander came into his office to say he’d given you to Steve. It’d be better for the image of Hydra. 

Rumlow agreed. Why wouldn’t he? But he seethed. Not because he loved you or anything that absurd. He just didn’t want to lose to the former Captain America, again.

This all should have been his.

Rogers didn’t even want a wife enough to appreciate it.

When he set eyes on you, padding into the living room in your fleece unicorn onesie, hair wet and without a drop of makeup, looking very much barely old enough to drink, he couldn’t help but feel that sense of being robbed. In the office it was not so bad. Seeing you all dolled up in your vintage styles that Agent Rogers preferred, while working, was no big deal. But seeing you without your hair neatly up, without your lips painted red, not immaculately put together. It was one more thing Pierce took from him.

You’d dropped whatever magazine you’d been holding, a Cosmo by the looks of it and frantically tried to not look as shocked as you were.

Steve didn’t bother to tell you.

You couldn’t lie well enough to fool Brock.

“Agent Rumlow! Um…can I get you something to drink? Did you eat dinner yet? We ordered pizza cause I messed up the roast…but there’s some pizza left. We have tea too. Iced tea, beer, orange juice and soda.” Since being married to Steve for nearly four years, you’d ruined more dinners than not. You were only just kinda getting the hang of the whole good hostess thing. Steve was a bit traditional. He liked things a certain way and while you two were not a traditionally married couple, in the sense you fell in love and got married and had kids and made a life together. You were a traditional married couple, in the sense that you cooked or ordered takeout, you cleaned, you dressed how he liked when out or with company. In return, Captain Hydra made sure no harm came to your family and life continued on for them, as normally as was possible.

You knew you were lucky, so many others in your shoes weren’t as lucky.

Hell, you were almost one of those unlucky ones. When you found out you’d been matched up to Agent Rumlow, you’d started sobbing.

You’d been relieved to find out that a mistake had been made, and you instead were going to marry Pierce’s Captain. After a year or so, it became clear that Hydra’s new Captain of Propganda wasn’t entirely who he pretended to be. But even the blood thirsty Agent Rogers was better than Agent Rumlow.

Oh Rumlow was polite and all around you, but you’d seen him loose his temper and avoided being alone with him at all costs.

“Iced tea, please,” he smiled politely to you, amused at your jammies.

Evening attire and your bedroom were the only things left that were your own. Steve didn’t care what you wore around the house when the sun went down, so long as you looked every bit the respectable retro lady during the day. Complete with vintage lingerie, classic glasses and even perfume that reminded him of the thirties. It was a pill finding makeup shades that were period accurate and those damn hot rollers were the vain of your existence. 

Still, you were so fortunate compared to others.

He never physically abused you. He never yelled or called you names. He never forced himself on you.

What a turn things had taken, since Hydra assumed control.

Off you turned, sharply heading towards the kitchen, allowing Steve and the interloper privacy. You had no clue why Rumlow was in your home. Nor did you care. You wanted him gone asap, but knew you had to remember your place. Rumlow could cause a number of problems for your family

***

“…which is why I think we need to act quick,” Brock summed up. Sipping the sweet tea you’d brought him and gesturing at the home office he’d found himself in. Which, he wasn’t surprised to see, was as every bit as tidy as Agent Roger’s office. Did the super soldier have any personality? He had to have, the man had managed to keep the wife Hydra assigned him happy for nearly five years. A pretty young thing too. It simply was not fair.

To be honest, Steve was only half listening.

His attention was on Brock, as the man went on about the recent suspicious deaths of Senator Stern and Colonel Karpov. Indeed Brock was correct, they had been murders. Indeed Brock was also correct in assuming that they were next. Well, that he was next.

Little did Brock know, he wouldn’t be leaving the cute little Rogers Bungalow alive.

Steve just wasn’t sure how he’d do it yet.

Snapping his neck was quick, neat and efficient. No messy clean up. He could dump the body and be back within an hour.

Easy, peasey and done.

However, that was hardly satisfying.

Rumlow wouldn’t suffer and that was what Steve really really wanted.

Maybe a pen through the eye first? Then a trusty breaking of the spine? There would be some pain and discomfort, minimal mess and cleanup.

A look of discomfort flashed over Rumlow’s face. One that drew Steve’s blue eyes away from wedding pictures up on the wall, pictures of a young frightened teenage bride and an unsmiling him outside a courthouse. From behind his desk, Steve watched Brock reach for the cool glass of tea you’d given him, grab it and then drop it on the hardwood floor, where it shattered into many pieces. Sticky sweet tea and broken glass went everywhere.

The suddenness of it surprised him.

Brock’s hands went to his throat, as his eyes went wide.

In turn, Steve leaned back in his chair behind the big antique desk. Surprise didn’t begin to explain what went through him when Brock began to cough and gasp and choke, blood began to fall from the man’s mouth in drops on the wooden desktop, on papers and pens.

Blood began to drip from Brock’s nose.

The more Rumlow began to cough and gasp, more blood came from his mouth, his nose as well. Which was quite the surprise. Steve had given you specific instructions. Should Rumlow, or anyone from the office show up, you were to give them a specific amount of a little something from a bottle under the sink.

Steve had gone over this with you several times.

Within the next few minutes, Rumlow should have felt sick or uncomfortable, possibly even nauseous. 

Rumlow was not supposed to vomit copious amounts of blood all over Steve’s desk. 

Rumlow was not supposed to gasp, and cough, throw up bright red bodily fluid. Or fall to his knees and aspirate all over the once shiny floor. Bloody hands reached up to grab the edge of the desk, as if to pull himself up, try to escape.

Rumlow was unable to breathe, forget get away.

Almost curiously, the blonde stood and walked around his desk. Steve peered down at the dying man who made the most horrific gurgling, wheezing gasping noises, from on the floor. Eyes narrowed, he watched Rumlow slowly die an agonizing death. All as he called out for you. Tone level, calm, as if absolutely nothing were wrong.

“Doll…come here for a second…”

He then waited and watched and wondered, what on earth you had done that time?

If he thought exacting his merciless unholy revenge upon Hydra would be exhausting, he’d clearly underestimated how taxing being married would be, even if you were just twenty-two.

All Steve wanted to do, was slaughter his enemies in the most painful way possible. All he wanted to do, was make every person who ruined his life suffer. All he wanted to do, was to burn Hydra to the ground? Was it too much to ask?

Now, he was going to be cleaning up a bloody mess.

When you eventually came prancing into his home office, still in that ridiculous rainbow colored onesie, complete with a tail, you stopped dead in your tracks. At the sight of you, he could not help but roll his eyes.

When he was your age, he was trying to join the army to go fight Germany. 

Oh how things had changed.

“Jesus Steve! He’s bleeding everywhere! You said he wasn’t going to make a mess!”

Weren’t wives supposed to be helpful and obediant? 

It took everything in him to remain calm, cool, collected. Running a hand over his face as Brock took his last breaths at both of your feet, your husband inquired through what sounded like ground teeth. “How much did you give him?”

“I gave him what you told me,” was your response, as you wondered how on earth you were going to clean all of this up. Blood was a pain in the ass to get out and Rumlow was getting it everywhere. Everywhere!

“You absolutely did not.” Was your husbands snippy reply, “How much did you give him? Did you measure it?”

At that, you too rolled your eyes. Your nails with the red polish he preferred went up on your hips. “Yeah! I even used the measuring cup!”

And then, Steve fully understood what happened.

Not that he was upset about the turn of events. It had happened and was done. Brock had obviously suffered, so that need had been satisfied. Brock’s last moments were most definitely spent in agony. Now, he was going to have to spend the rest of the night cleaning. “The measuring cup?”

“Yeah. The measuring cup. Ten cc’s into the pitcher just like you said. I measured it out. Ten ounces exactly.”

That explained everything.

“An ounce is larger than a cc. You confused imperial and metric again. You overdosed him. Massively overdosed him.”

To which you made a face, “What am I? A communist? Why would you tell me it in metric? You know what I’m like! This is as much your fault as it is mine!”

Holy shit, were you driving him crazy.

Both his hands went up into his hair, as his vibrant baby blues looked up at the ceiling. He took a breath. He needed a moment. Steve needed to collect his own proverbial shit before he said, or did something, he couldn’t take back.

Moving on.

Steve had to move on. 

He had to get rid of the body.

Still looking upwards, he managed to get out, “Go get some of those big black trash bags from the garage. We’re going to go dispose of him and tomorrow, I’ll destroy the house.”

An outraged noise came from you. “But my stuff!”

Finally, in a tone that allowed for no backtalk, Steve snapped at you. “Now! Go get the bags! I’m not going to ask you again!”

You threw your hands up and stormed off. Some of the sting of your action gone due to your attire.

Only when you were out of sight, did he shout after you, “Change too! You’re coming with me and not dressed like that.”

Hell only knew what sort of problems you could cause if he left you alone, unsupervised, for all that time. Steve couldn’t risk it. Director Pierce could come by and you might accidentally behead the man somehow. He wasn’t in the mood to be disposing of bodies all night. Especially not when he had big plans to build another bomb in the works.

***

“Forgive me,” you continued to complain from the passenger seat of Steve’s truck. “I didn’t realize that there was a dress code for dumping a body.” Because he still was in a mood and you were so done with it, you were actually apologizing.

Rumlow’s motorcycle had been easy to get rid of and the full-faced helmet that he wore was perfect. Steve elected to hang onto that for part two of the plan.

Who knew Captain America, nay, Captain Hydra could be such a pill?

Being married was supposed to be easy.

It should have been a cakewalk.

Captain Hydra was supposed to be a pawn of Hydra and you’d assumed a good fully indoctrinated brainwashed soldier. All you should have had to do was feed him, clean up after him and not rock the boat. What did you get? You got hell on wheels out on a killing spree, who was nostalgic for the old days.

For crying out loud, you had to figure out how to use hot rollers. You bought a bunch of old cook books with mixed results. It turns out, cooking wasn’t really your thing. You’d even begun wearing tights at home, on weekends, to be the best little wife for Captain Hydra.

Sighing the sigh of an eternally suffering saint from behind the steering wheel, Steve piloted his truck down a dark road behind a Hydra disposal site. One that he knew for a fact had minimal security, less cameras and an industrial incinerator. “There’s no dress code. I just don’t want to have to kill anyone that might see you and remember you. We’re going for discreet. A Hooters hoodie with black leather leggings is not discreet. In fact, its vulgar.”

It had been a gag gift for your younger brother Peter. But he was so much of a goodie two-shoes, that you’d hung onto it.

But Steve wasn’t done. Oh no. Far from it.

Dressed in black tactical clothes he had stashed somewhere in the house, with Brock’s helmet between the two of you. Steve added, with both gloved hands on the steering wheel. “And I’ll have you know. I’m not thrilled with that shirt either. Do stores even sell a complete shirt anymore?”

To which you glared in the dark of the cab. “There is nothing wrong with this shirt Steve.”

Apparently there was something wrong with it. Because he took his eyes off the small windy road that went through the woods. 

“I can see your bra when you lean over. Its distracting.”

Ah, right, this dead horse again.

Different shirt, same problem.

This was not the husband you had been sold. Where was that lovely, fully indoctrinated, man-bot you’d been promised?

“Ok, first of all…” your hand rose in defiance. “Have you seen your ass in a pair of pants?”

“What…”

“Second of all,” you pressed on, undeterred by your significantly older husband and his issues, complaints and dated moral norms. “This bra was expensive. If I bend over and someone is looking, they better get a damn eyeful. Do you have any idea how much I have to pay to have lingerie made that is thirties accurate? Do you? You should be happy I don’t walk around the office topless.”

When Steve slammed the brakes on, three things happened, all seemingly at once.

One, being the deer that darted across the road with two little babies hurrying after it, their eyes glowed in the trucks headlights. Secondly, the bags containing Brock soundly hit the back of your seats. You both felt the impact and had you not gotten pulled forward from physics, you would have noticed it more. Third being, your seatbelt never touched you. Sure, you heard it lock up. Yet your forward motion was never stopped by the restraint. Steve’s hand stopped any forward movement from you, from where it rested on your sternum and left breast.

It’d been a reflex.

Without so much as a second thought and even though you had a seatbelt on, his unconscious need to protect you was that strong.

As if you burnt him, he pulled his hand back.

Steve never wanted you. He never wanted a wife. It was no secret between you both, that he didn’t want to be married. He just wanted to wreck havoc. Once again, he was alone, on his own and he was fine with it. What he was doing meant he couldn’t have any attachments. He didn’t need to have any lose ends.

A zero sum was what his life amounted to. Steve had nothing left. Zola had been right.

Zola was going to wish he’d been wrong.

Pierce was next on his list. 

Oh how he was going to make Alexander suffer. Assuming he managed to clean up the mess you’d made with Rumlow first.

Quickly pulling to the side of the single lane, out in the woods well beyond the wooded perimeter of the nondescript Hydra building, Steve parked and turned his truck off. After which, he turned and looked right at you. Pointing pointedly, “Stay in here. Do not move. Do not speak. Do not touch anything. Don’t even think. I do not need you causing me any more problems.”

Outraged, you gaped, “You can’t leave me alone out here! What if some weirdo comes by and tries to kidnap me?”

Biting his lip till it bled, Steve remained quiet. 

He would genuinely feel for any such weirdo who happened along you.

You shrieked, knowing that whatever he was about to say would have been high offensive. “You’re punishing me! Aren’t you? You’re mad cause I accidentally killed Rumlow and you didn’t get to torture him. You’re so unreasonable! I don’t even know why I’m surprised! It’s like being married to an episode of Criminal Minds!”

Not completely understanding that reference, your handful of a husband frowned.

“Exactly!” You added defiantly, “And I’m not staying here in the woods to get Ted Bundied. So you’re just gonna have to figure something the fuck out husband dearest!”

Sometimes Steve wondered if he’d been assigned a wife to spy on him.

Now was not one of those times.

If Alexander Pierce was going to arrange a marriage for publicity for him, to keep tabs on him, pass on information and generally monitor him, Pierce would have found someone far more agreeable. Considerably less belligerent too.

Something shifted in the back seat.

Brock’s quadruple bagged body fell onto the back floorboard with a soft thud.

You were not coming in with him.

Nope, not going to happen.

Steve had suspicions that you would throw a fit, if he attempted to leave you in his truck. Leaving you unsupervised was bad enough. Unsupervised and agitated? That was a recipe for disaster.

Without hesitation, he reached over, hand grasping your throat.

You attempted to fight him off, knowing exactly what he was up to and wanting to part of it, not again.

However, unfortunately for you, Captain Hydra was a super soldier and considerably stronger. When his fingers sank around your throat and pressed down on the main artery that ran up the column of your throat, there was little you could do. Sure you fought, you wiggled and squirmed.

It wasn’t enough.

His grip wasn’t painful, it was firm though.

Before long, you felt your heart pound in your temples. Your center of gravity tilted. Had you not been seated, you would have fallen and his hand was gone.

Somehow you just barely managed to hang onto consciousness, you were able to not black out. You were never pulled under by that heavy darkness. 

Sadly, you were unable to do more than that and by the time you were able to breathe deeply, by the time you were able to blink and focus and hold your head up on your own, you found your hands cuffed behind you.

Your damn husband even had the audacity to gag you with soft white handkerchiefs. 

You could hear him moving stuff around in the backseat and let out unhappy muffled noises.

“Keep it up, doll. You’ll spend the rest of your night like that,” was the answer you got in response.

He’d leave you like that too.

He’d done it before.

This led you to look over your shoulder at him and catch him tugging on Brock’s cross-bone mask. A big bulky black trash bag over one broad shoulder. You scowled. He pointed with a black glove. “Fine, you’re riding home like that. Go ahead. Make another face at me. I’ll keep you home all day tomorrow like that. Keep it up. I’m not going to tolerate any insubordination from you.”

At that, you turned around to face forward.

If he saw you roll your eyes, he’d keep you home all weekend chained up in his den, polishing silver and crystal. 

You hated polishing cut crystal almost as much as you hated those damn hot rollers.

***

Dumping Brock’s body into the massive industrial incinerator had been easier than expected.

Steve only encountered two Hydra Agents patrolling the building, whom he quickly dispatched and tossed in too. His lack of any sort of emotional reaction, well, it just further confirmed for him that there was nothing left of what Doctor Erskine had seen in him. He almost felt bad. He knew he should have felt something. But there was nothing left for him to give.

When he returned back to where he’d left you in the truck, after a quick jog through the forest and over a chain-link fence with razor wire, Steve paused. An immediate rush of anger surged through him, when he didn’t see you through the passenger window.

Still in the black tactical gear from Brock’s team, the full faced mask in hand, he hurried over to the door and quickly opened it. 

Steve was greeted to the sight of an infuriated you, stuck down on the floorboard. One leg folded up underneath you while your other was stuck in front of you. Had you not been gagged, you would have been able to kiss your knee.

He growled, “I told you don’t move.”

Through your gag, you shouted something that he was very much willing to assume was in no way flattering towards him.

In response, Steve slammed the door.

If it were even possible, you grew louder. Or maybe it was his enhanced hearing? Quite possibly both.

And maybe, he slammed the passenger door a little harder than was necessary? 

Walking around the blue truck, he found himself getting upset with you. More so than he’d even managed to get, even a bit, when he’d encountered the two security guards. The ones he’d just killed. They hadn’t even warranted a second thought.

You didn’t listen.

You never listened.

Not only did you have difficulty following basic instructions, as was the case with Rumlow and the poison, but you had to be one of the unluckiest people he’d ever met. Every single time he turned around you were getting into something. And while you had a mostly good heart, your damn mouth. Dear God your mouth. Steve just knew the second that gag came off, you were going to have something smart to say. And while his restraint for violence had dropped considerably, he didn’t want to hit his wife. He’d watched his father knock his mother around. Hitting his wife was a line he wasn’t going to cross. No matter how much you made him crazy. Just thinking about you and that mouth of yours, it was making him uncomfortable. The desire to sink his fingers in your hair and feed you his dick to shut you up was strong, so strong.

Beneath his breath, he swore.

By the time he got around the truck and into the driver’s seat, he was livid.

You weren’t helping.

You were still yelling at him through the gag. Somehow Steve knew from the look at your face, you were placing all the blame from your current predicament on him.

He almost started his truck to drive with you wedged down on the floor.

He almost just tuned you out, so you would learn your lesson. As it was, you were spending the rest of the night in those handcuffs. Why indulge you?

Why?

Well his dick was really beginning to be uncomfortable. And there was one thing you did, a thing that he found he didn’t hate.

“What did I tell you?” He snarled, reaching down to grab you by your upper arm and roughly haul you up, back into your seat. Clearly you’d been screwing around. Not only had you unbuckled your seatbelt. But, you’d kicked up the divider between your two seats, making the front seat a single bench seat. “Don’t move. What is so hard about that? I told you don’t touch anything. What did you do?”

In response, you yelled at him through your gag.

Steve yanked you clear up almost effortlessly, so hard you grunted when your back hit the seat. So hard, you heard your shirt rip. Thus leading to another spewing of venom from your gagged mouth.

To your surprise, Steve pulled you across the seat till your thighs touched and after he flung Rumlow’s full face mask into the back, he yanked the V of your shirt down till it ripped. Your bra suffered the same fate. 

Another shriek came from you.

“Scream all you want, no one will hear you out here.” He hissed against your hair. Quickly yanking off thick gloves, Steve tossed those in the back too. Wanting very much to feel your breasts that he’d exposed to the night in the cab of his truck. “God I hate your clothes. Between that stupid unicorn jumpsuit and this shirt, which is nothing but a goddamn tease, I’m just going to make a new rule.” He snarled as he spun you around in the seat to face him, grant him access to your chest as you breathed deeply and watched him. Not afraid, no, you weren’t afraid of him. You just weren’t sure what he’d do next. And god help you, it was something of a turn on. “That shirt was useless. You might as well have been wearing nothing. From now on, you either go naked around the house, or I help you pick out your clothes. Got it, doll?”

You nodded that you understood.

Your nipples were like little pebbles as your body tingled in anticipation.

Was he going to rip off the rest of your clothes and screw you right there, on the seat of his truck? Or was he going to leave you like that and drive home? Not knowing was making you squirm. You felt yourself grow treacherously aroused. This man, he could make you crazy with a simple freaking request.

Can you iron the table cloth?

Can you not wear black nail polish?

Can you watch something other than that trashy TV show?

Can you…can you…can you…

It was never ending.

There was only one time when the super soldier wasn’t bitching, or thinking up new and inventive ways to horribly murder members of Hydra.

Calloused hands took your breasts, stroked them appraisingly, rubbed your aching pierced nipples, touched your exposed chest possessively, as if they were as much his as yours. He wasn’t gentle when he lowered his head, when he licked a path over one swell to your tight nipple, which he took between his teeth. Sucking and teasing the sensitive nub painfully, wonderfully, making you gasp and whine behind the gag. Your fingers curled, your nails dug into your palms from behind your back.

For a man so old fashioned, he found great interest in the simple little gold bars that went through your nipples. His tongue toyed with the metal. His teeth tugged on them, making you cry around the wet fabric in your mouth. 

He’d never tell you. Never admit it. But there was something…dirty, erotic, taboo about those piercings. Ear piercings were fine. He never gave them a second thought. Hanging onto his past gave him something to desperately claw at, to hold onto. Still, the second he set eyes on your lush breasts, perky with youth and a shiny piece of metal through them. His cock would weep. His balls would tighten. He’d want to initiate you into every depraved thing he thought about you. He wanted to defile you. Brand you. Make you desperate for only his body, his hands, his cock, his taste, him.

Steve surprised you by shoving you backwards, sending you on your back onto the seat, his body completely pinning you down. Without your hands, you could do little. You couldn’t even speak. Steve didn’t need commentary from you. Your surprised cries and grunts, pants, even your whines went right to his hard dick. Less than gently, he sucked on your nipple and breast hard enough there would be a bruise. All while he yanked on your black pleather leggings. They came off pretty quickly. You caught a flash of them in your peripheral vision.

Not that you could concentrate on where your pants went. Oh no. Between his mouth so hungrily sucking on your breast and the two fingers that sank into you without warning, you cried out, teeth clenching around the handkerchief. 

He clicked his tongue.

Instead of saying it, he moved his fingers in and out of your wet folds. A squishing noise followed that could only be from you, a wildly copiously wet you.

You glared and uselessly thrashed around beneath him.

When he withdrew his hand to show you the evidence of your arousal, slippery wet and gooey between his two fingers in the moonlight, you had choice words for him from behind your gag. You made him smirk and as he began to unbutton his pants, he finally had a few words for you. Brooklyn accent sneaking in here and there, “Don’t waste your energy fighting with me. You’re gonna need it tonight. I’m not stopping till I’m soft. You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

This made you yell a muffled cry.

He could not be serious.

If he expected you to have sex until he lost his erection, you’d be at it for hours and you both had to work in the morning. Which was the exact point you brought up to him, as sounds of a zipper unzipping filled the nearly dark cab.

In the full moonlight, you glanced down to see him pull his erection out of his pants. 

Steve, still being fully dressed, gave it an obscenity. Protruding from black fabric like a painting surrounded by a frame. Thick, uncut, pre-ejaculate smeared over the red angry tip with his heavy sac resting against the back fabric of his pants.

There was no ceremony or hesitation.

You watched with wide eyes. Steve Rogers, former epitome of all things just and noble, pushed his foreskin back, revealing an erection decorated in veins. In eager anticipation your hips widened. You could feel how sinfully wet you were in the chilly cab, as the night brought the inside temperature down. All that was left on your body was the ruined remains of your shirt and bra, around your waist, lewdly displaying your chest to him.

So much bigger than you in every way. You whined when he ran his head up and down your slit, covering himself in your moisture. Smearing his precum around on your pussy lips. Smearing his essence around, marking you.

It was where his brain went during sex.

You were younger, yes. At first it made him uncomfortable. You’d come to the marriage previously having only one sexual partner. A boyfriend your age, who’d been your first. It’d been sweet, you’d explained, on your wedding night. Steve had asked just to know. Upon finding out, a primal urge to wipe your body clean of anyone else filled him. 

After that, during your wedding night, he made sure you knew exactly who your body belonged to.

As he pushed into you, he watched your eyes in the dimly lit vehicle, his night vision letting him see how they widened desperately.

He was so big. He filled you to that point of pain. Stretched every last inch of your core.

If he went slow and worked you up to it, you never hit that point, you had intense orgasms that made you moan and cry out and cling to him, breathless with chants of his name.

On that night, Steve wanted you to scream when you came. He wanted you to draw blood on his back if he uncuffed you. He wanted to feel your body desperately shake and cling to him, when you screamed through your first few orgasms. Towards the end, he’d make you a moaning sloppy mess.

In one powerful push, he filled your tight little pussy and if it were even possible, the surprised noises you made were making him harder. Desperately your body attempted to grow accustomed to him. Your thighs shifted and your ankles hooked around him. With your hands bound by steel, behind your back, there was only so much you could do.

All you could do was take it.

You took every last inch of him into your body. As he began to move, you made noises through the gag. Your breasts shook and your thighs trembled from the onslaught. Steve’s hands pressed down on your pelvis, so he could fuck you without you bouncing all over the front seat. He licked your tit’s. His teeth would snatch a nipple, then the other, while his tongue toyed with each small gold bar.

Each pump was blinding pleasurable agony. Your snatch gripped him tightly. Wet sucking noises came that told him how fucking wet you were, and was it the best feeling ever, to sink into something so soft and hot and moist.

He was doing this all night long.

Steve came first and he wasn’t at all bothered. He planned to come a lot that night. Plowing into your young taut body, he grunted when he came, painting your walls with his seed for the first time, making you even wetter. Fucking you with the combination of both your arousals. That mental image alone kept him hard as granite. Searing hot pleasure spread through his body that made his head spin, his breath gasp and his movements get jerky.

Your gasps brought him back

You were close.

He could feel it in the way your heels dug so frantically into his thighs, how you did your best to open your hips more, arch at an angle that allowed your clit the friction it needed for rapture.

“You feel that doll?”

You were getting noisy, you always made the cutest little noises when you were winding up towards your orgasm.

Pounding into you hard enough to make your tits bounce each time, Steve went harder, till you grew louder, cried more.

“That’s my cum in you. You made me cum in you that fast, your little pussy milked it right out of me. Are you going to be a good girl for me and come? For the first time tonight, are you gonna listen and come on my cock?”

Because he was greedy, Steve snaked one hand up to your clit so he could make it happen faster. He was quite pleased when he found out he could make you orgasm without touching your clit. But that took time, and he wanted to watch you come on his dick right then. He had all night to fuck you senseless.

Your eyes widened. He rubbed your clit, just saturated with your slippery arousal. You moaned desperately, your gag getting wetter with every passing second. He circled your clit, applied more pressure. You began to arch and squirm to lessen the sensitivity. With every pounding your body took from him, you coiled higher and higher.

When you came, you screamed, you jerked to the side and contorted in what looked like agony. Steve smiled and kept slamming into you, he kept stroking your nub. Your thighs quivered. Your toes curled. Greedily your snatch milked him for more ejaculate.

Twice more you came like that before he took you home.

***

“Oh god Steve...oh god…oh god…oh shit…shit…shit…shit…” you gasped, whined, begged and just moaned, as he railed into you, still erect as ever and merciless in appetite.

You found your hands still cuffed behind you, but the gag gone.

Almost angrily he pounded into you.

Your hips and waist would have purple finger and handprints tomorrow, decorating your skin with evidence from your night.

You had no clue what time it was.

You’d lost count of how many orgasms you’d had.

All you knew was you were home, on the sofa, getting bounced on his erection like it was his new favorite game. You could see why. He’d made you come twice, back to back even, your body so overwhelmed from the repeated climaxes, you felt drunk. If you had one more you were going to die. Of that, you were certain. And yet, he kept at it, bouncing you up and down, pumping you like a toy. Baby blues watching your slippery body move, your tits bounce. You were so wet you weren’t sure if you’d ever not be aroused again.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, he climaxed again. Body tightening against yours, slick with sweat and his grip tight, as he released once more into you. A part of his brain content for the moment, with nature being fulfilled, even if his erection had yet to go down. Allowing you a break. Letting you sit on his cock, buried up so far inside of you after your long night, it felt like he belonged in you.

Steve let go of your waist to grab your breasts, twist your piercings. 

Panting. Wanting to touch your flushed skin. Grope your breasts, feel them, grab them, suck on them, mark them with his teeth.

He was close to being done.

Very close.

You looked so beautiful, body painted with white clumps from him. Marks that were darkening with every passing hour. And the noises you were now making, guttural and pure sex, absolutely perfect. Both of you smelled like sin and debauchery. Filthy and dirty and Steve reveled in it. His sticky damp hands grabbed your nipples and you moaned, feeling nothing but good stuff, overwhelmed and blissed out.

You opened your eyes to watch him twist the piercings, suck on them and play with them, using that deft wet tongue of his. 

Your breasts were covered with marks. Hell, your body was covered with marks.

Staying still, you could focus on the slippery exchange of bodily fluids that covered your lower halves. You swore you could feel it ooze from your tender cunt, that seemed to still slowly clench around him, like residual shocks after an earthquake.

And then, then he let go of the nipple he’d been tormenting and looked up at you.

You never moved other than to breathe.

Nor did he.

For a second you were terrified he was going to kiss you.

You froze.

That was the one thing the two of you did not do. Your body was covered with bruises. His shoulders and chest were littered with your bite marks, deep enough to bleed. His semen leaked from your pussy and rectum. His face was smeared with your combined cum, a bit even got into that golden hair you would have loved to sink your fingers in, to pull on.

However, you did not kiss.

That was a line neither of you crossed.

As the fog of coital haze began to lift and Steve realized what had almost happened, he stiffened beneath you.

It was you who recovered first, having reacted first and noticed the clock up on the wall.

“If you do not want to be late for your morning run, you should take me into the shower and make love to me in there, husband dearest.”

***

Steve watched Jack Rollin’s watch you.

That was it.

Rollin’s was next.

From his office he could see into Director Pierce’s, which was right across the large office space. Although Pierce’s door was shut since the man was in a meeting.

Your desk sat right in front of Pierce’s, so Steve watched you.

He watched you calmly tell Agent Rollins that you had not seen Agent Rumlow yet, but, when you did, you’d pass on that Agent Rollin’s was looking for him.

Whether the muscular Rollin’s didn’t believe you, or what, Steve didn’t know.

He only knew that the longer Jack asked about when you last saw Rumlow, the more he wanted to fillet the Hydra Operative like a fish.

Eventually, with other things to do, Jack ambled off and you went back to work. Work being reading a magazine you had hidden in your desk drawer. This led Steve to his feet. Feeling a bit more annoyed than he had before Jack approached your desk, he strolled out of his office and allowed himself to take in the sight of you. Your hair up in a sleek black clip, that matched the black immaculately tailored dress you wore. A belt around your waist hinted at your curves and matching kitten pumps drew his eyes to your calves. 

Since no one else was really around due to noon approaching, Steve ran fingertips over your desk and casually spoke. “Interesting you didn’t throw coffee at Agent Rollins like you did me this morning.”

Your gaze never left your magazine. “I didn’t intentionally throw coffee at you. Believe me, you’d know. I would have aimed at your face and not apologized.”

Pondering that, he paused and nodded, “Very well. Noted.”

Once you turned a page, you reached for a pen so you could take a quiz. 

You had work to do.

“If he keeps asking about Rumlow, we may need to take care of him,” Captain Hydra told you, still in his stealth suit. Shades of midnight blue paired with blood red. It made the distinction in the new world from the old, in more ways than one. 

When you didn’t respond, Steve glanced down and rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

“Hush…I need to find out what type of sushi I am.”

“If Director Pierce comes back from his meeting and you’re not working…”

You waved him off, pink glittery gel pen in hand. “We already know he’s a California Roll. Now hush. This helps me think. By the time I’m done with this, I’ll have your Agent Rollins problem all sorted.”

And you’d know what type of sushi you were. It was win win.

Steve, on the other hand, didn’t need you to solve his problem. You were his problem and becoming a bigger problem with every passing day.


End file.
